A Night full of Terrors [2]

Both the skeletons, unthinking monsters with the sole intent of killing the living; stabbed and cut at her. The left one swung at her, and the man parried away the blow with the blade of the shovel. A lucky blow. Layla stepped slightly aside, let the blade cross a foot away and grabbed the hilt of the black sword. The skeleton tried to pull away, if only just to set up for another blow, and Layla stabbed her the tip of her sword through its left eye socket. Its death whine called out before it crumbled away.

The man was not so lucky after his entrance. He tried to parry with the shovel again, but the blade cut through the wooden shaft. Then through his skull.

"Aahh!" Layla cried out once more, and with the remains of her strength, killed the last skeleton.

It fell away down the sloped path as the man fell back. Sword still cleaved through his head. The sword pierced the dirt, not willing to give from its new home. The black that colored the blade melted away in the firelight and was replaced with rust. The blade was but an old blade, no longer that ominous blade that had cut her flesh like butter.

"Fredrick!" One of the women called out as she rushed out to the dead man.

She sobbed as she knelt beside the dead man. She muttered insults and promises to the man, her sorrow was as clear as he was dead. Not that it mattered to Layla. She cared not one bit for the man, nor the girl. She had only cared to protect the children, and maybe the mothers.

Layla fell back against the fence, only built a few years ago. It hadn't been painted yet, and now was stained with her blood. She stabbed the sword into the dirt and tore a peirce of the once pristine cotton dress. She bandaged her wounds quickly before she could bleed out, her arm already red with her blood. She tried to control her breathing as her lungs protested from her sudden fight. Her muscles quaked from the effort, and now her left forearm burned.

But she was still alive.

She was not religious, still, she uttered a thank you to every god she knew. To Alistair, the human god; to the forgotten wind, God of the forgotten; To Hades, the god of the Demons; Lastly, to Akysyss, God of the Dragons. Then she uttered a wish, a prayer, or a desire. She did not know what to call it, but she wanted the strength to see her child again. To see Savannah and to tell her she loved her.

Despite her sudden willingness to pray to the gods, she laughed out at the childishness of it. They would not help her survive. She had to do it on her own.

"Why are you laughing?" The sobbing woman looked up, almost offended.

"Shut up," Layla said with a groan. "I'll laugh if I want to. I just killed a group of fucking monsters. You did nothing."

The girl was shocked by Layla's demeanor. The village had known her for a sweet adventurer who settled down to be a mother. Layla was not a sweet woman, at least, not to those who did not deserve it. She was a fighter, an adventurer, and a woman who had seen the known world. She had lived through much and killed many. No, Layla was wild and fierce, only tamed by that young girl. The only thing she cherished.

"Family is the most important thing. Go to her, and never let her go." A sweet, melodious whisper reached Layla's ear. As if it were just a passing breeze. A sudden warmness filled her. Summer. It felt like a cool summer day...

∞♥∞

Twisted and pale, his body rested on the lip of his tomb. One black feathered wing stretched out on his left. One Boney wing stretched out on his right. His eyes, glimmering blue orbs of ice, looked over the kneeling draugr. The Lord of the Damned, or little known by his truth name of Lahabiel, was pale as snow and wore nothing over his muscular body. His body the height of perfection, aside from a glaring red "x" over his heart. The mark of his failure.

"And this mortal, who had slain a part of our forces, got away...?" Lahabiel's voice was dangerously low, almost a snarl.

"Yes. She was a skilled warrior." The draugr answered.

"And you did not kill her yourself, why?" Lahabiel asked.

"I had sent more of Black Ones." The Draugr answered. "I believed it would have been enough to deal with the mortal."

"Clearly, it wasn't," Lahabiel growled.

"We have given chase, my Lord." The Draugr informed Lahabiel, but he only huffed at the undead's failure.

"Commander Jogun." Lahabiel began. "You have led my forces in the years past, but I did not believe you would have such a meager failure."

Jogun's only response was a deeper bow of his head.

"Leave," Lahabiel commanded. "Chase after them, but do not go too far. If they manage to leave our reach, it is nothing... There is a more pressing matter. I feel a great power to the south, and we will march for it."

"Yes, my lord," Jogun said.

"Also find out how long we've been gone from the world," Lahabiel added. "Let us leave now."

The drauger nodded as the fallen angel got up from his tomb. His angelic body perfect, and beautiful, and deadly. While he was an angel, he was also the Lord of the Damned. The fallen angel who had helped destroy heaven, and joined the Evil God Hades; Goddess Cyril's father. He was one of his warriors, and now he walked the mortal plane. As did Jogun. Neither were aware of why they had been brought back.

Lahabiel, nude for all to see, passed the draugr and into out through the broken doorway. He stepped out into a large corridor, old and forgotten by time itself. Tens of tombs lined the corridor, and all of them had been opened. Blood and mangled dead men littered the far end of the corridors. The foolish mortals who had broken into his tomb, and had paid with their lives.

The tombs belonged to his Black Ones. While they were not great fighters, they were immortal. If one had died, Lahabiel could create another. Constructs of Lahabiel's creation, and far from perfect. They learned over the course of their lives but lost their knowledge upon death. Their uses were limited. For now. He had not the time to tinker with them before he had died, but he would change that. Eventually, he would create a powerful undead army and renew the world.

Lahabiel smiled as he stopped in front of the dead men. There were no less than twenty men, armed with pickaxes. He raised his palm, pulled the mana from the air, and it festered into a black fog in his hand. Once he was satisfied with the amount he created, her upturned his palm. The black corruption dropped listlessly from his hand and onto the bloodied flagstones below. It began to swim towards the nearest ten bodies before it slipped in through their mouths.

The bodies began to convulse and the flesh began to split. The bodies bent unnaturally as their bones began to move. First, their spines ripped broke the skin before their hands moved over and torn their wounds open. Blood and guts gushed over the flagstones, wetting Lahabiel's feet. The sensation made the corner of his smile grow.

In a matter of minutes, the ten glossy black skeletons stood in the ruins of flesh and meat. Their bodies were unmarred by filthy mortal blood.

"Rearm yourselves," Lahabiel said in the dialect of angels.

While Jogun did not speak Heavianic, he still understood it. His black hollow eyes watched as the skeletons, drone-like, wade through the shallow sea of blood. They found stone weapon racks. Their contents, long rusted, turned black in their hands. Longswords, shortswords, and maces. All obsidian.

As they did that, Lahabiel dropped another mass of fog onto the ground. It infected the remaining bodies and they danced more wildly than the skeletons had. Also unlike the skeletons, their transformations were done within mere seconds. They did not become Black Ones, instead, they became snarling zombies. Fresh, they snarled at each other before they whimpered at the fallen angel.

"Let us go," Lahabiel said. Smiling like a pride father. "Let us renew the world."